'You've got the gen on this aircraft, I suppose?' 'Yes. Seems straightforward enough.
Bloke drops in
to see his brother. Lands on a twenty-acre field next to the churchyard.
I can't find any hook-up with our case.' 'Tell me about it.'
The Inspector lit his pipe. 'The missing man is Edward Small, who for the last two years has had charge of the village of Elmthorpe, in Hertfordshire. Young chap. Place is only a hamlet. Until recently Small lived with his mother in a cottage in the main street. Three weeks ago she died, and was buried in the local churchyard. He was upset, naturally, but not to the point of doing anything silly. Since then he's had a daily woman looking after him. On Friday the fourteenth — that was five days after his mother died — Small was due for night duty round his beat — a matter of four miles. The beat starts at one end of the village, makes a circle, and comes back in the other end. In addition to the village it takes in one or two farms, labourers' cottages, the rectory, the churchyard and some lands belonging to the church, which includes the twenty-acre pasture I mentioned just now.
There's a second-class road all the way.
'Small had his supper late, about ten-thirty, after seeing the people out of the pub at closing time. He was perfectly normal then. It was a fine, warm summer night.
Telling his woman the arrangements for the following day he put on his helmet and went out. From that moment no one has set eyes on him. He was to have met an officer from Stevenage half-way, but he didn't turn up, so we can reckon that whatever happened to him occurred on the first half of the beat.'
'I take it this is a rural district?' queried Biggles. 'As rural as anywhere in the land.'
'What about poachers?'
'Hasn't been a case of poaching for years.'
'Any other crime in the district?'
'Not actually in the village. There have been some burglaries in the big country houses round about; but that's happening everywhere. Matter of fact there was a neat job done at Clagston Hall the night Small disappeared; but we needn't bring that in because the nearest point of Small's beat to Clagston Hall is close on six miles. He couldn't have been near the place. Anyway, the burglary wasn't discovered until long after he should have been home.'
'Have you got a line on this burglar?'
'No. But all these jobs were the work of the same man. Same method. He seems to know his way about. Gets in through an upstairs bathroom window.
Takes nothing but cash and jewellery. Must carry his own ladder. Never touches those belonging to the house. Must be a new hand at the game, because although I've a good set of fingerprints we've no record of them at the Yard.'
'Sounds like an inside job.'
'You'd think that; but I've been through the households with a tooth-comb, for no result.
‘I caused a fuss by even taking fingerprints of the staff.'
Biggles nodded. 'Well, he's your headache. Tell me about this plane.'
'It belongs to the rector's brother. I called on the parson and asked him about it. He's an amiable sort of chap, named Dewsbeny, about forty, unmarried. Lives at the rectory with a housekeeper. He's been there twelve years and seems popular with everybody, high and low. He told me his brother was a flying instructor at Dacton Aero Club, in Yorkshire.
Flies down occasionally to see him, landing in the big field next to the churchyard. It belongs to the rectory, so there's no difficulty about that.'
'Why does he fly down?'
'Apparently it's a day's journey by train. By air it can be done in an hour. Sounded reasonable to me.'
Biggles lit a cigarette. 'May be. But the Air Ministry now frowns on these casual landings outside official air-ports. So do I, if it comes to that. They're dangerous. And besides, as we know, such landings facilitate illegal practices - Customs evasions, currency rackets, and so on.'
'Well, I'm not suggesting that there's anything like that in this case.
But a plane has landed at Elmthorpe. I may be clutching at straws, but there seemed a vague chance that it might come into the picture, which is why I looked in to see you. As a matter of detail the plane hasn't been down for over a month. I confirmed that in the village.'
'As that was before Small disappeared it's hard to see how it could be involved. However, let's check.' Biggles turned to Ginger. 'Give me the Dacton Club file.'
The file was put on the table. Biggles went through it. 'Here we are.
Chief Instructor, Richard Ernest
Dewsberry. That must be the man. Hello, what's this? Licence suspended for twelve months and fined fifty pounds for failing to declare a quantity of saccharin on entry into the country from France. That was three years ago. Not very nice for his brother, being a parson. I wonder where he is now. Ginger, put a call through to the club secretary.'
Biggles turned back to the Inspector. 'Do you seriously want me to go on with this?'
'It couldn't do any harm. I've explored every angle and I still haven't a clue.'
'There's usually one; the trouble is to find it. No matter. It's a fine day for a stroll in the country. I'll go and have a look at Elmthorpe.'
'Fly down?'
'No. It isn't worth it. We don't want a police plane seen in the vicinity, anyway. I'll take the car.'
'Do you want me to come with you? I know my way around.'
Biggles smiled. 'Which means that everyone in the village must know who you are and what you're doing. No thanks. A couple of casual visitors should pass without comment.'
'Just as you like,' agreed Gaskin, getting up. 'You might as well have my map. You'll find everything marked on it.'
Ginger came over from the 'phone. 'Nothing doing,' he reported. 'I spoke to the steward.
The secretary is away on holiday and Dewsberry has been abroad for three weeks conducting a tour of club members across Europe.'
The Inspector shrugged. 'That settles any argument about him. If he was on the Continent the night Small disappeared, obviously he wasn't at Elmthorpe.'
'It would seem like that,' agreed Biggles. 'Get the car round, Ginger.
We'll have a look at this field.' He smiled. 'If we could make the Courier cough up a thousand pounds it'd teach them to have more respect for the police.'
`That'd be lovely,' agreed Gaskin, grinning. 'Have a go at it.'
Rather less than two hours later Ginger stopped the car on the road beside the gate that gave access to the rectory acre field. They got out, Biggles, with the Inspector's map, which he had been studying on the way down, in his hand. For a minute they gazed in silence. Then Biggles said:
'Well, what do you make of it?'
Ginger's eyes went to some tall trees rising from the hedge on their side of the field, and more opposite. Towards the village end a church steeple rose above still more trees. 'Not too good,' he opined. 'I expected a square field, not a long narrow one. With a north-east windlblowing a landing would be easy enough because you would come in low with the length of the field in front of you. From any other direction you'd be taking a chance with the trees. Dewsberry, being an Instructor, might risk it.'
'If he had a reason.'
'What do you mean by that?'
'Well, I've done a fair amount of flying, but I wouldn't take a chance on landing here — unless the wind was dead right — merely to make a social call. The fact that Dewsberry is an experienced pilot would make him hesitate, too — unless he's a fool.'
'I see what you mean,' returned Ginger slowly. 'Anything- else strike you?'
'No.' Ginger gave Biggles a second glance. Now what are you thinking?'
'There's one thing that strikes me as odd. In the ordinary way one wouldn't notice it. But this isn't an ordinary occasion. I came here in a suspicious mood, looking for anything in the slightest degree unusual.
Here we have a nice field of grass. With agriculture on its toes with food production, why are no sheep or cattle taking advantage of all this feed? It'
s worth money. It belongs
to the rectory. The rector's stipend can't be all that big that he needn't bother to increase it by letting this grazing to a farmer. I can think of one reason for that. With sheep or cattle roaming about a plane wouldn't be able to land. It follows, therefore — if my guess is right — that the rector keeps the field clear so that his brother can land.'
'What's wrong with that?'
'Nothing, except that I got quite a different impression from Gaskin, who was given to understand that these landings were merely a matter of a fellow dropping in to have a word with his brother. We now have a different picture. Dewsberry, the pilot, is apparently prepared to take risks in order to land. And his brother, the rector, is willing to chuck away a hundred pounds a year in order to say "hello" to him. It looks to me as if they have a definite reason for meeting. Of course, all this may add up to nothing, but we came here to study the air angle and look for something Gaskin missed. He knows his job, so if we're to find anything new we've got to dig deep and examine every detail, however
`Dewsberry may only fly down when the wind is right for a safe landing.'
'Living in the north of England how would he know the direction of the wind here?'
‘I might ring up and find out.'
'That supports my argument that these meetings are arranged, and not just casual affairs.
But let's go along to the village pub, park the car and see if we can get something to eat.'
'Just a minute,' said Ginger quickly. 'There's the parson now, coming over the stile from the churchyard.' 'What's he doing?'
A black-clad figure was now in the field. With head bowed and hands folded behind him he was walking slowly towards the gate by which they stood. ‘seems deep in thought,' observed Ginger.
`The field's his own property, so there's no reason why he shouldn't take a stroll across it if he feels like it,' Biggles pointed out.
‘looks as if he might be mushrooming.'
Ìt's too early for mushrooms. Looking to see how much grass he's got, maybe. Let's pretend to be doing something to the car. We don't want him to think we're snooping.'
The clergyman came on, without raising his eyes, to the gate, where he subjected the ground to a close scrutiny. He then turned about, and taking a slightly different course, returned to the churchyard.
'He's lost something,' decided Ginger.
'That's what it looks like,' agreed Biggles. 'Let's press on to the tavern.'
They managed to get a simple meal, but learned nothing of the mystery that had brought them to the village. Biggles refrained from asking questions for fear the landlord might guess their purpose and spread the news.
Lunch over, they went out, and leaving the car sauntered down the street.
Now,' said Biggles quietly, when they came to the home of the missing officer, 'this is where Police Constable Small started on the night he disappeared. We'll follow in his footsteps, or the steps we might suppose he would take in the ordinary course of his duties. But between here and a point on his beat something extraordinary must have happened. There's just a chance, if we use our heads and our eyes, we might get a line on what that was. Gaskin has been over the ground before us, but I still feel it would be a mystery indeed if a full-grown man could be spirited away without leaving a trace behind him. There's not a shred of evidence to suggest that he went voluntarily. In fact, everything points the other way, which means that there must have been violence.'
They set off.
Their route took them out of the bottom end of the village, with occasional houses on either side, the occupants of which must have heard any sounds of an unusual nature on the night of the constable's disappearance. For a quarter of a mile the road then ran straight between thick-set hedges, without a turning on either side, to the gravel drive that led through an avenue of trees to the rectory. To the right was the low stone wall that bounded the churchyard with its many tombstones, and the grey pile of the church beyond.
Biggles paused at the drive. 'We can't very well go up there without being observed by the parson or his housekeeper, and I'd rather that didn't happen — yet.' He went on to the open lychgate from which a path curved to the church porch.
Ginger would have walked past, but Biggles stopped. 'I said we'd follow Small's probable footsteps,' he remarked.
'But would he go into the churchyard?' queried Ginger, looking surprised.
'If your mother had been buried there five days ago would you walk straight past?'
'No.'
'What would you do?'
'I'd stop and think about her. With the grave so close I might walk in and have a look at it.'
'I'm pretty sure you would. So would anybody. Small thought a lot of his mother, don't forget. In fact, if there's any place on his beat where he had reason to stop, it's here.'
Biggles walked up the path between the last resting places of bygone generations of villagers.
They had no difficulty in finding the grave of Mrs Small, even though it was tucked away in a corner near the stile that gave access to the big field, for the newly turned earth was conspicuous, as were some simple wreaths of flowers, now withered. An ancient yew with low-hanging branches kept silent guard. Under it was the stump of another, to form a convenient seat of which Biggles took advantage.
'The next question is, assuming that Small came here, how long did he stay?' he said lighting a cigarette, and flicking the match away. In a moment he had stooped and picked up something from the mossy grass near where the match had fallen. It was a cigarette end. 'It looks as if he might have sat here long enough to smoke a cigarette,' he said quietly, answering his own question.
'Anyone might have smoked that,' Ginger pointed out.
'Agreed. But who more likely than the man whose mother lies buried a few feet away?
There are more comfortable seats than this for anyone without an interest in this particular spot.' Biggles searched the ground, and was rewarded by another cigarette end and two dead matches. 'Somebody sat here long enough to smoke two cigarettes,' he affirmed. 'It could have been Small.
There would be nothing remarkable about that.'
'But what could have happened to him here, of all places?'
Biggles shrugged. 'You could say that of anywhere on his beat. But something certainly did happen to him, somewhere.' He got up, and walking to the grave, gazed at it thoughtfully. Presently he went on, in a curious voice: 'Something, I don't know what, but something has happened here.'
'What makes you think that?'
'Because flowers are put on a grave after it has been filled in, not before.' Stooping, Biggles took a stalk that protruded from the loose earth and drew out a crushed carnation.
'That certainly is a bit odd,' muttered Ginger. 'Here's another. What vandal would trample on a grave?'
'That's what we would like to know,' answered Biggles softly. Not Small —
at any rate, not deliberately.'
'Here's a piece of black ribbon half buried — off one of the cards, I imagine.' Taking between his finger and thumb the ribbon that had been exposed by the removal of the flower, Ginger pulled. About six inches of ribbon came to light, and then a larger piece of material, also black, to which it was attached. There were two oval-shaped holes in it, and Ginger caught his breath when he realized what he held. In the circumstances it would have been difficult to imagine anything more sinister.
It was a mask.
'Put it out of sight - quickly,' snapped Biggles. 'We may be watched.'
Ginger noticed that even he had turned pale.
'Come over here,' went on Biggles, in a curious voice, going back to the tree. 'Now we have got something to think about,' he added.
Silence fell. From the shade of the yew his eyes surveyed the churchyard, mellow in warm summer sunshine. Rooks drifted in and out of the steeple.
After a while he resumed, musingly. 'The last person buried in this churchyard was Mrs Small. Had there been another death in the village we should see the grave. That l
ittle grey stone building in the corner must be where the sexton keeps his stuff. If he hasn't had another grave to dig it probably hasn't been used since Mrs Small died. I wonder could he tell us anything? I think I'll have a word with him.'
Biggles thought again for a minute or two and then moved as if he had made up his mind.
'Look, Ginger,' he said crisply. 'I'm going back to the village to ask one or two questions.
I want you to go to the Yard, find Gaskin and bring him here right away.
Tell him to bring his best fingerprint man, with his equipment. Say I'd like to see the case file on the local burglaries. Oh, yes, and he might bring a bunch of skeleton keys. That's all. Be as quick as you can.
You'll find me waiting by the grave.'
'Okay,' agreed Ginger.
They walked back to the road by way of the sexton's shed. Biggles took a glance through the window in passing, but said nothing.
At the lychgate they turned towards the village, and the car.
The glow of sunset was fading behind the elms that gave the village its name when Ginger, after parking the car near the lychgate, led the way through the silent churchyard to the stump where Biggles waited. With him were Inspector Gaskin, carrying a brief-case, and Tomkins of the fingerprint department, with his bag of equipment.
'What's all this about?' demanded Gaskin, looking hard at Biggles.
'Ginger told you what we found here?'
'Yes. What do you make of it?'
'Sit down and I'll tell you,' answered Biggles. 'Talk quietly. I've an idea. I may be wrong, But if I'm right I'd rather you dealt with it than me.'
'Was I right about the plane coming into the picture?'
'Yes and no,' replied Biggles vaguely. 'We'll come to that presently.
Have you brought all the things I asked for?'
'Yes.'
'Good. Then let's get busy. I want Tomkins to check the handle of that shed over there for fingerprints. He'll need the keys, because I then want him to go inside and check the handle of the spade that hangs on the wall. There will certainly be plenty of fingerprints on that. Better take photos. We may need them for evidence. In fact, he'd better bring the spade back with him. Carry on, Tomkins.'
53 Biggles Chinese Puzzle Page 12
